As The Rain Goes, So Must We
by k4rn0
Summary: Pain. Grief. Anger. He hated those feelings. They made him feel weak. Powerless. Helpless. Useless. But at the same time they made him feel alive. Human. To deny them would be to reject his humanity. His origin. His identity. They made him what he was and what he is.


The city of Mistral was a lively place. Not in the literal sense of the word but in the sense of its people and their activities. From dawn to dusk to the streets never find themselves lacking for people, from the lowly pickpockets to the occasional passing noble of some old bloodline to your average, run-of-the-mill citizen just minding their own business, legal or otherwise.

Above the city a different kind of activity are taking place. The sun slowly slipped back into the western horizon, gone was the golden light of the day, in it's place a rosy-tinted moniker danced above the clouds giving a scarlet shimmer to their dark purple. And just above them all, on the darkness that crept around the edges of the sky, the faint glimmer of the stars above could be seen if one's eyes are keen enough.

Below the sky, back in the city, the tides of pedestrian began to dwindle away. At first, they went as ones or pairs but quickly developed into groups of three or dozen. Slowly but surely the streets grew emptier and emptier. As the number of pedestrians diminished so too does the interest of the other street dwellers. One by one the vendors went home and the shopkeepers closed their shops. Little by little they all went away except for a few twenty-four-hour shops, inns, hotels, and some night street vendors who make a habit of making their trade at times where competitions are little.

Very few people wanted to stay on the streets at night, when the gangs and street rats patrolled their 'territory' and when man of less-than-ill repute make their living. Most of those who did are either 'privileged' few who live in the high places where street crimes rarely occurred or are part of some nefarious underground criminal organization or simply have businesses too important to leave behind.

I happened to be the last one by the way.

The rain of the previous days had dampened the ground, softening it enough and making it easier for the grave to be dug. Aurum Castillian was a big, hairy, and muscular man. He was also quite heavy and it took me quite a while to carry his body off to it's final resting place. I buried him in the corner of the cemetery, the cheapest place I could buy. The grave was longer than the coffin by a foot, wider by a few inches and was about my height.

I lifted myself up from the bottom of the grave, making careful step to avoid treading on the coffin containing the body of my now dead mentor. When I looked down, the image below seemed so surreal, so unbelievable that this has to be a dream. I once heard that there are seven stages of grief; shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. Judging by the numbing sensation on my hands it appears that I'm still in stage one.

I don't have the money to afford an assistant not when I might need it to pay for the rent and foods in the coming months. Aurum Castillian might be a Huntsman but he was a far cry to the image of one. When he was alive, he stayed in the cheapest place, ate the cheapest take-out, travelled by the cheapest Bullhead, and lived the cheapest life I've ever seen in all the years I've spent in two worlds. When he died, he was dressed in a cheap shirt, shouldering a cheaper suit, wearing a black trouser that was given by a neighbour just this morning, and placed in a coffin that barely fitted his body.

_The day I wore those flimsy shirts and suits _he had once said _is the day I die_. He said it when we were visiting the local tailor. I had suggested a few clothes to add to his less than impressive wardrobe.

I never thought that the words of a huntsman could so prophetic but you learned new things every day, I suppose. It wasn't the first time I'd seen a dead body nor was it the first time I'd to buried one. Death becomes a constant occurrence when one is traveling from one frontier town to another. Not that it made it easier for me to dig up the grave or to force down the lump on my throat or the tears from the edges of my eye as I gaze down the corpse below.

"You're a good man, teach," I began. "I'm not very good with words but I can tell you that much atleast. You helped a lot of people who are in need. Saved a lot of lives. Even when they're not in your line of works, like that one time we helped the old lady in Mantle or that one time we helped a woman with her baby even though you know nothing about childbirth."

I smiled fondly at the sweet memory. Nostalgia mixing with grief and melancholy to form an indescribable feeling within my chest. "That was the only time I've ever seen you panic by the way. I hope that all your good deeds would be more than enough for whatever sin you've committed in the past. I'd say some prayer for your soul but you don't believe in gods or an afterlife.

"I'd bury you with your spear but you told me to take it and not to waste good steel to rust. I hope you can forgive me for my antics. You're a fair teacher and you have never scolded me or beaten me up in a spar when I didn't deserve it." I frowned. "Except that one time in Vacuo. I tried to tell you that it was the monkey faunus who ate your bananas. Not me. It doesn't matter now I suppose."

I'd say more but then I'd rambled on and on, drowning myself in the past, and never get around to the burial.

"You're a good man, teach," I said, picking up a shovel I borrowed from the local morgue. "goodbye."

And with that I began filling, not once daring to stare at the corpse below. That way lies grief, tears, and madness. It took me ten minutes to filled in the grave but it felt like it was going for eternity. When I was finished, I took sight of the small, cheap gravestone I had bought from the stonemason.

_AURUM CASTILLIAN, A HUNTSMAN, A TEACHER, A SECOND FATHER_

_Vale, 1st of June, 14 AV_

_To_

_Mistral, 3rd of July, 77 AV_

I was not ashamed to admit that the small streams of saltwater trickling down from my eyes were my tears.

AN: And that's about it for this one. I'll admit right from the get go that this is more of a spur-of-the-moment kind of idea, partially inspired by a passage in The Knight of The Seven Kingdom. I have no promises for this one and this may simply ended up as a one shot. I tried to take a different take on the whole S/OC-I kind of thing. Starting not with a portal or a sudden teleportation into Remnant but with a burial. What can I say? I'm the melanchonic kind of guy.


End file.
